The Pursuit of Happiness
by ximpossiblex
Summary: Scorpius was ill, and there was only one person who could help a desperate Draco to find a cure for his son - Healer Hermione.
1. Chapter 1

**AUTHOR'S NOTE - **I worked super hard on this chapter, and I really hope you guys enjoy this and review with your honest opinion on it. "Enjoy the Silence" and "Change of Heart" just weren't working out for me; so I'll be just writing this story and see how everything goes. I might do one-shot stories as well, but I'm not so sure yet. :) Anyway, enjoy!

**DISCLAIMER - **I do not own Harry Potter. All credit goes to J.K. Rowling.

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

The woman in the front let out a gasp of air, wobbling as her knees nearly gave up on her. Her ice blue eyes were red with tears, her makeup trickling down her puffy cheeks as she blew for the thousandth time into her tissue. She held onto the raven-haired woman's hand beside her, letting her head fall onto her shoulder. Another sob occupied the attendees' ears, causing several of them to bow their heads in grief.

The sky was casted with gray clouds; it was as if they knew today would have been a depressing day for a good amount of the society. The sun was blocked with grayness; the air was misty and fogged. It was, in Draco Malfoy's opinion, a horrible day—but a perfect day to hold a funeral for a fallen wizard.

The only reason he decided to come to this grieved ceremony was to stabilize his mother so that she wouldn't go completely berserk in front of the guests who came to pay their condolences. If he hadn't been for Narcissa, he would've liked to spend his Tuesday afternoon playing wizard chess with Scorpius.

As the guests began to make their way toward Malfoy Manor—where the house-elves had prepared a small lunch to say _thank you _for those who had joined the Malfoy family—Narcissa stayed behind, ignoring her sister's gesture to come back up to her home.

Draco watched in a far distance as his mother's shoulders slouched, her body trembling as silent tears crawled out of her eyelids. His lips went dry just watching her nonchalantly; his jaw clenched as his mother dropped to her knees. Why he hadn't expected this from her, he had no idea. Letting out a small sigh, Draco placed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the tree, wondering when the appropriate time to approach her was.

The sudden, and even shocking, death of Lucius Malfoy didn't faze Draco much after he heard the news from a brief note sent by his mother from St. Mungo's. Sure, it took a few hours to let the information sink in—never again would his father scoff in his face his ideas to help improve their family business; never again would he live as "the Death Eater's son"; never again would he be called a disgrace to the Malfoy name.

Just the thought of the cold words leaving his father's mouth made Draco shiver involuntarily. A disgrace, that was all he ever was in his father's eyes. He was a letdown, a disappointment, a humiliation to his surname. His dreams and his father's expectations for him had never leveled out smoothly; his ambitions were "foolish", "careless", "irresponsible" to Lucius. Whereas Draco despised sitting in a boardroom with twenty other aging wizards to discuss business and investments, Lucius dreamed of his only son to handle the family business once he deceased.

But, of course, things didn't work that way.

Draco's profession was one Lucius said were for poor, useless people. But to Draco, he enjoyed teaching Hogwarts students about defensive spells against the Dark Arts. His personal stories were shared tediously to the first year students; not to scare them, but to teach them what the Wizarding world was really like before and during the war. It made his students take the class seriously; Headmistress McGonagall said she'd never seen a better O.W.L and N.E.W.T results since before the war.

While thousands in England praised his teaching, Draco's father simply refused to congratulate his son's teaching. It was nothing but nonsense.

And now, as Draco stared blindly at his sobbing mother, he wondered what would happen to Malfoy Corporation. It was never his intention to take over the business; he loved his position at Hogwarts and had no intention of giving up on it just yet.

Malfoy Corporation invested small Wizarding businesses to have them expand. Their company made a large profit annually, recruiting unknown associations and developing them into lucrative companies.

When Draco had been younger - even before he went to Hogwarts - his father took him to important meetings and interviews with new, hopeful clients. He remembered vividly how excited he was when Lucius invited him to business lunches; he enjoyed being in his company then.

Things changed as the buildup to the war progressed; Lucius's imprisonment to Azkaban during his fifth year tore apart the already-weak connection between the two. Draco became vulnerable, easy to manipulate - especially to the Dark Lord. He wasn't fond of his decisions that recruited him to the Dark Side, but he didn't have a choice - he had done all he done to please his father, to get his approval after his breakout.

Lucius didn't see the sacrifices Draco had made for him after the fallout of the war. Things went back to how they were before Lucius's imprisonment; Draco stayed put in his part of the manor out of his parents' ways until he was offered the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor where he moved into a three bedroom cottage closer to Hogwarts.

Despite his mother's protests, he enjoyed his life alone. Marriage was out of the question; that was, until he turned twenty-one and Narcissa threw a surprise birthday party for him.

The usual guests were in attendance; co-workers, clients, family, old pals, and ex-Death Eaters had come by to wish him a happy birthday, but Draco only gave them a curt nod.

It turned out to be a show for his father; his Dark wizard friends questioned Draco's odd choice of profession and Lucius had given them an expected response: "He's just a confused child, still. Sooner or later, he'll come over to Malfoy Corporation."

Other than his mother, the only guest who was pleased with Draco's presence was Astoria Greengrass. A charming, bright witch, Astoria worked as an Owler for Malfoy Corporation but held onto a striving dream to become an Auror. It wasn't long before she and Draco began sending letters to one another, and began spending the night laughing over wine at exclusive eateries.

Astoria was something special to Draco. She wasn't fond over his decisions of teaching, but unlike Lucius, she approved of them. His parents accepted her into the family, and welcomed her with nearly two thousand guests for their wedding at the Malfoy Manor.

Draco recalled the look on his father's face when he informed him that he still had no desire to help run the family company with Lucius; he looked disappointed, enraged.

"_How will you support your family properly once you and Astoria decide to have children?" Lucius had asked, his voice sour._

_Draco had kept still, his pale lips in a thin line. "We'll manage well enough," he drawled, the bitterness in his tone exposed._

But Lucius and Narcissa approved of Draco's choice in Astoria immensely; she came from a line of a pureblooded family. Though she wasn't exactly high on the social society's food chain, the Greengrass family was still very well-respected in their community. They weren't as wealthy or as fortunate as the Malfoy family, but they managed without the luxurious additions that came with fame and fortune.

He became a father at twenty-three, the same as Lucius took the title as father to Draco. Scorpius resembled Draco in every way since the day he was brought into the world; his lips were thin; his skin was a milk-white and glowed in the darkness; his eyes were pulled by the sides, the color of gray ice. He was cocky, sarcastic, intelligent, handsome, and charming all by the time he turned eleven. Draco didn't see anything greater than being a father; all the darkness of his life before Astoria and Scorpius seemed to have diminished.

Despite Draco's uncertainty, Scorpius was fond of his grandfather. When Astoria and Narcissa spent their Saturday afternoons shopping around London's most expensive department stores and Draco graded assignments, Scorpius enjoyed his grandfather's presence at Malfoy Manor. He loved hearing the tales of his grandfather's success, the build-up of his career and fame in the Wizarding community. (Of course, he left out the little bit of his cowardice to the community and his worship to the Dark Lord.)

Scorpius had been completely destroyed with the news of Lucius's death, much to Draco's displeasure. He locked himself in his bedroom, nearly setting the entire house on flames—his amateur magic wasn't being tamed and he had no way to control it. Every time Draco tried to ask Scorpius what was upsetting him, his son shook it off and stormed off outside to play Quidditch on his broom. He continued trying to feed out the information from Scorpius, but it was no use; the death of his grandfather was unbearable for him.

Draco now gulped the bile rising in his throat, feeling the palms of his hands start to sweat. His mother's sobs turned to small weeps as her other sister, Andromeda, approached her. He watched as his aunt placed a hand on Narcissa's shoulder, struggling to help her rise to her feet once more.

Seeing his mother this distraught broke his heart. She had shut herself in her private den, only leaving to eat for three meals. Her eyes always seemed glazed with tears, her mind distracted on the reality in front of her.

"Draco," a delicate voice breathed behind him. He cocked his head to the direction of the angelic intonation and his heart swelled to see his wife, Astoria, watching him intently. "Everyone's inside the manor, you know ..."

He nodded slowly, turning his head back to Narcissa and Andromeda. They were disappearing into the fog, on their way back to the people who were paying their condolences. "I was just...seeing how Mother was taking this news."

Astoria nodded, stepping into Draco's side. She wrapped her shawl around her body tightly, letting out a small breath. "She's just as hurt as Scorpius . . . And you?" She questioned quietly, glancing at him as he stared blankly at his father's gravestone.

"And I?"

"How are you handling this?" she thoroughly explained.

Draco merely shrugged his shoulders casually, fisting his hands into his pockets. "Quite well ... I think I'll be just fine."

"But our son won't and neither will your mother," Astoria pressed. "Face it, Draco; you'll be headed to the family business -"

"Don't," Draco interjected shortly, holding up a hand to silence her. "We cannot discuss this matter at the moment."

"Then when?" Astoria inquired curtly, her voice in a bare, terse whisper. "You keep avoiding this conversation, but it's only natural that -"

"Where's Scorpius?" he asked loudly, droning out his wife's accusations. He glanced ahead toward the manor, a blanket of fog and mist gulping Draco's past home into a grey scale.

Astoria realized her husband wanted no say in the discussion she tried to hold previously. Letting out a small breath, she loosened the black shawl around her thin frame and lifted her chin to the direction of Malfoy Manor. "Last I saw him he was storming off into your old room ..."

Draco felt his stomach turn over. He hadn't entered his bedroom since he left it once he turned eighteen. How Scorpius had found his room was beyond him, considering he once got lost even after all these years. He wondered what would possibly please his son in his room - his Quidditch magazines? The moving posters? His old broom? He shuddered at the thought, the burning memories of his short-lived childhood searing through his brain.

Without a word to Astoria, he Apparated straight into the empty kitchen in the presence of his house-elf, Verney. The bat-like ears that belonged to the hunched-over elf touched his toes as he bowed. "Young Master Malfoy," he crooned lowly, "how may Verney assist you?"

Draco flinched consciously at the title "Young Master". He shrugged it off, asking immediately: "Have you seen Scorpius?"

Verney lifted his ears, letting them bend behind his balding, wrinkled head as his long fingers tugged onto his ragged, oiled cloth he wore as clothing. "Verney saw Young Master Malfoy's son sneak out of the dining room to avoid the commotion. Tewny spotted him in your bedroom. Would you like Verney to call for him?" Again, the elf bowed.

Draco shook his head, glowering toward the dining room with icy grey eyes. He then glanced up the spiral staircase, muttering, "There won't be any need for that, Verney. I've got it."

"As you wish, Young Master," Verney croaked, trotting his way over to the cooking room with his hunched back.

Silence fell; the only things Draco could hear were the hums of distant voices belonging to the guests in the dining room and the clatters of metal pots and pans as the house-elves prepared desserts and beverages for the evening guests.

Quickly, he marched up the stairs-two at a time-and banked left. The long hallway only contained Draco's private bathroom and his bedroom at the end of the hall. The corridor took a full ten minutes to walk at a reasonable pace; the mutters from the portraits of ancient and distant relatives vibrated in Draco's ears. He did his best to drone them out as the heat picked up just as he neared the entrance to the bathroom; this portion of the manor was in the South Wing, on the third and last floor. He loosened his black tie, coming to an abrupt halt at the entrance to his old bedroom.

The old perfumes of butterbear and firewhiskey filled Draco's nostrils with just one step into the grand room. The walls were a light shade of green, the furniture in black cherry wood. He couldn't help but scoff; Slytherin House colors. The bed itself was king-sized, neatly made and untouched for sixteen years with all-white sheets and pillows. A black bookshelf that towered from floor to ceiling with each shelf containing various assortments of books and volumes and old textbooks he liked to keep. An old Quidditch poster of Viktor Krum was pasted onto the ceiling hovering over his bed. His dust-covered Nimbus 2001 was leaning against the bookshelf, the sun shining down against the broomstick. Old quills, dried up parchment, and ink bottles lingered around his desk where he worked on at-home school assignments during the holidays. His Potions course book lay open to page forty-six, the page dog-eared. The door to his closet was still open. The only things remaining were his seventh-year Hogwarts robes, the Slytherin embroidery gleaming into the sunlight. Draco could spot an empty bottle of firewhiskey in the corner, his cheeks flushing into a rosy pink color.

"Wow," he muttered thoughtfully to himself, throwing his suit jacket onto the kept bed. "Nothing's changed. . . ."

He had almost forgotten the sole purpose as to why he had bothered to enter this room; the same room that contained all the joyous memories he ever had as a child. All of the Light in his life diminished just as the Dark Lord requested him . . .

But he didn't want to think of that. He didn't want to feel trapped in a nightmare, the ghost of his past -

"Dad?"

Draco's colorless eyes darted around the room until he saw Scorpius's pointed chin come passed the other side of his bed. "Son, what're you doing-"

"I could ask _you_ the same question," his son scoffed in an uninterested tone. As Draco approached, Scorpius leaned his head against the side of the bed once more, staring out the bay windows. A clear view of the garden and terrace on the North Wing was visible past the strong intensity of the sunlight.

Draco sat beside his son, hugging his knees as his head swung back lightly to the side of the bed. "I came to find you. Of all rooms...you choose my bedroom." He couldn't help but chortle. "Why?"

Scorpius shrugged his shoulders, glancing at his father with round eyes. Draco was always intrigued by how vastly similar his son was to him; Scorpius's eyes were colorless too, frozen like blocks of ice. His skin was ghostly white too, glowing in the darkness; his hair was silvery blonde as well, combed

fashionably. The genes he had inherited from his mother weren't there

physically, but he did have the same independent pride as Astoria at times, but Draco's cocky, sour tones were seen in Scorpius as well.

"No one would've suspected me to come here. And I like it," he affirmed defiantly, crinkling his brows together. "It's...not what I would have expected from a Hogwarts teacher."

Draco raised an eyebrow, his pasty lips curled. "Why do you say that?"

Scorpius couldn't help but grin immaturely as he handed his father a Muggle magazine with bombshell women in revealing bikinis. He knew it was from the Muggle world because the photographs and articles didn't move; they remained frozen. "I found it underneath your bed," his son explained as Draco felt his cheeks color nervously. "I don't reckon Mum would be too happy about this, so -"

"- so we leave this between us," Draco shot back, rolling the magazine and throwing it back underneath his bed. "What else did you find when you raided my room?"

Scorpius shrugged, rising to his feet. Draco was impressed with his height at just eleven; he was lanky and lean, the right physique that would earn him a spot on a Quidditch team in later years.

His son grabbed a photograph off of Draco's desk and examined it carefully, almost hesitantly, before extending his hand to his father. "Who are these people?"

As Draco took it, his breath was cut short. The moving picture was of him, Blaise Zabini, and Pansy Parkinson. Blaise and Draco were in their Quidditch robes, basking in their glorious win as Pansy hugged them tightly. Draco triumphantly showed off the Snitch, grinning just as the camera flashed. He looked younger, fresh, carefree . . .

A lump formed in Draco's throat. He coughed nonchalantly, handing the photo back to his son. "Just . . . two old friends."

"You never invited them for dinner," Scorpius remarked.

"No, I didn't."

"Does Mum not like them? Or do they dislike her?"

Draco shook his head, smiling grimly. "They don't like me."

Scorpius scoffed, sitting beside his father again after setting the photo back where it belonged. "That's a lie, Dad," he replied incredulously. "Grandpa always said people were very fond of you -"

"Yes, well. Not everyone," he said distastefully, a twinge of annoyance hitting his stomach at the mention of his father. "Blaise, Pansy, and I were very close during our years at Hogwarts. They were interesting people, with different backgrounds at home, but whenever I was in their company . . . I wasn't Lucius Malfoy's son. I was just me; a carefree, reckless, although spoiled, Draco. But things-people-changed," he continued darkly, the bile rising once more. "I'm sure your grandfather shared the tales of how I was recruited into the Dark side during my sixth year." Once Scorpius nodded, Draco continued: "I didn't trust anyone within Hogwarts anymore; I was isolated, and whenever my friends came close to me I blocked them out of my way. Blaise and Pansy had enough and...and even after the War, they wanted nothing to do with me."

"But you made new friends, right?" Scorpius pressed gently.

"After the War, there were only a few Death Eaters who were saved from death penalties or life-term sentences to Azkaban; your grandfather was one of the fortunate few. We had to pay a great deal of reparations, going to public events to get the community's notice. While my father seeked power and hungered a greater wealth-not like we didn't already have it-I seeked forgiveness from old pals and enemies. Blaise and Pansy didn't want my friendship anymore; they assumed, after hearing about my position at Hogwarts, I couldn't be trusted. And, well, you've heard of my old enemies Ron and Harry. You saw them with Harry's son James the other night for dinner."

"But . . . why would you still have this picture?"

Draco merely shrugged, watching as the sun began to lower and the guests left the North Terrace, saying their goodbyes to Narcissa. "It's nice to have a memory of them every once in awhile."

Scorpius nodded sadly, looking into his lap. "I think of Granddad a lot ..."

Draco stiffened, raising a brow once more. He wondered whether or not to comment this statement, so he merely nodded once. "It's perfectly normal to think of someone who has passed on," he manages to get out.

With a loud _crack_, Tewny appeared with deer-like eyes. "Master Malfoy, Mistress Malfoy and your wife are looking for you and Young Master ..."

Draco nodded, looking out the window. All the guests had left, leaving Narcissa and Astoria curious as to where the two had run of to. "We'll be there shortly, Tewny."

Scorpius masked a scowl, rising to his feet with his father, as Tewny

Disapparated out of the bedroom. "Why don't you like coming to Grandma's?" he inquired lightly as they began walking out of the bedroom.

Draco bared a grimace, placing his hand onto his son's shoulder. "That's a story that's best to be told at a different time...and place, for that matter."

Scorpius remained quiet, slumping his shoulders as he reached the end of the staircase to see his mother's green eyes wide and his grandmother's painted lips drawn into a grimace.

"Where have you _been_?" Astoria cried, exasperated. "You weren't present for the pudding and none of the guests got to say goodbye."

Just as Scorpius opened his mouth, Draco piped up, "He was having a little adventure in my old room, with me. There's nothing to fret over, dear." Astoria kept her lips in a thin line, helping Scorpius into his coat. "I think we should call it a night."

Narcissa lifted her light, watery eyes. "You don't want to stay, Draco dear? Perhaps we have discuss -"

"As of right now, the matters left to discuss are that I must head to Diagon Alley to collect last minute supplies for the beginning of term. And, of course, Scorpius needs to get all his essentials." Draco suppressed his best smug grin, raising a pale eyebrow. "Right, well...there's nothing to discuss."

"You skipped tea," Narcissa breathed wearily, a fail attempt to keep her son in her household for a bit longer.

Draco scowled darkly, his eyes hardening as his mother's pleading marbles pierced into his. "I've been in this house for too long today, Mother," he snapped. "You can come visit Scorpius before his leave for Hogwarts. Goodnight."

Grabbing Astoria's wrist with Scorpius trailing behind after a muffled "Night, Grandma", Draco Malfoy stormed out of Malfoy Manor - the one-time place he called his home but now seemed so distant, so . . . unfamiliar to him.


	2. Chapter 2

**DISCLAIMER - **I do not own anything Harry Potter; all credit goes to J.K. Rowling

**AUTHOR'S NOTE - **This chapter took a long time to write, and I'm actually happy with the way it turned out. Enjoy. :)

* First part is present, the last section is past. You'll figure it out & might notice a pattern even. :D

* * *

Her fourteenth date of the month, and counting against her will. Hermione Granger had been set up on blind dates by her parents and close friend, Ginny. She shared tea at dawn with hoodlum Squibs; lunched with aristocratic, biased heirs; and dined with Muggles who were rather pleased to have Hermione pay for the meal.

Although the winner of the Best Gentleman Award would have to be a Muggle who interrupted her every time she tried to start a light conversation, none of the men seemed the fancy her; they, too, had been held against their will to share a good hour with her.

As Hermione collected her shawl and purse rather grudgingly at the end of her dinner with an unmannerly, impolite Squib who resembled a younger version of the caretaker of Hogwarts, Argus Filch, she thought, _At least these buffoons were being _paid.

She Apparated into the field of Ottery St. Catchpole, holding her heels in left hand and her wand in the other. The lights were dim-lit at the Burrow; she could see a flying toy broomstick and a flabbergasted Molly Weasley chasing her granddaughter. The hums of her screams were all too familiar.

_Just like old times._

She couldn't help but smile as she neared the house where she spent the remainders of her summer all those years before since her years at Hogwarts. The familiar smell of grass and parchment and mince pie and roast beef filled her nostrils just as she stopped at the front steps. Owls hooted. Trees swayed with the breeze. A gnome cackled in the meadow. Chickens clucked while drifting off into a slumber in their coops.

Before she could even knock, a tired-eyed Ginny Weasley opened the door as if in relief she had arrived. "You're here!" she breathed desperately. "You best get inside . . . Harry should be coming—GEORGE, PUT HER DOWN THIS INSTANT!"

As Ginny raised her voice, Hermione knew she had inherited her mother's hollers and vicious glares. It wasn't too surprising.

Hermione stepped into the kitchen, setting her belongings down to see baby Lily Potter hovering in mid-air with her uncle George at the other end of the wand with a pleasant grin on his freckled face.

George carefully glided Lily securely into his arms, causing her to explode with laughter. He spotted Hermione, his brows raised. "Granger!"

Hermione smiled, waving sheepishly at him. "Isn't it passed Lily's bedtime?"

"I was just about to say the same thing!" Ginny cried, taking her two year old into her arms. Ginny turned to her friend apologetically. "I'll be done shortly."

She made her way up the narrow, crooked staircase with George by her tail. The other residents of the Burrow seemed undisturbed by the commotion George made with his young niece; they seemed to be too used to the ruckus.

Hermione let out a small puff of air through her parted lips. The fire that was nearly coming to a stop cracked. She was just about to grab a copy of _The Quibbler_ when . . .

"Hermione dear, what are you doing here?" Molly Weasley asked, wiping her frail hands with a tattered rag, her amber marbles filled with worry and curiosity.

"I apologize to come here as such a . . . a shock," she replied, "but I was . . . in the vicinity and I was hoping to see Ginny."

"That's wonderful!" Mrs. Weasley trilled cheerfully, making her way to the refrigerator. "Are you hungry dear? I do suppose I'll need to head to the market in the morning, for kippers and eggs ..."

She hadn't realized how her stomach kept growling with every thought of food; she had lost her appetite when her date picked his nose. Nodding rapidly, she responded eagerly, "Yes, famished."

With the flick of her wand, Molly conjured a bowl of heated stew and a small sandwich of roast beef with a goblet of butterbeer. Smiling happily (she hadn't seen Hermione at the Burrow in weeks), Mrs. Weasley bustled about in the kitchen, rambling stories about all the commotion going on at the Burrow.

"Andromeda has been staying with Narcissa Malfoy—you know, with Lucius's death and funeral—taking care of her sister, so Teddy has been sharing a room with James and Albus. George has been in the works of expanding into Italy and Spain, and since his flat in London has been exterminated, he's been sharing his old room with Ron—"

Hermione nearly choked on her roast beef. "Ron returned?"

Molly continued to wipe the spotless countertop. "Why yes, he's been here for nearly a month. . . . And since first term will be starting shortly, the young boys have been spending the night. Poor Lily, she nearly had Harry's hair set on fire when she was told they couldn't spend the night either . . . So everyone's been stuck here, in the Burrow." She didn't seem to mind; the company was always something she enjoyed.

"What about Bill, Charlie? Percy?"

"Bill's at Shell Cottage with Phle – I mean, Fleur," Mrs. Weasley coughed. "Yes, Victoire is attending her last year at Beauxbatons; they'll be here for Christmas, however. Charlie's still in Romania, working in the natural environment of the dragons and Percy's been doing work for the Ministry so, naturally, he's in London."

Hermione's eyes widened in admiration to Molly; how she handled all these members and kept up with all they were doing, Hermione would probably never know.

"Ron didn't tell you he returned, dear?"

She blinked up at Mrs. Weasley, placing her empty plates into the sink. "I haven't been in . . . in much contact with him, to be quite honest."

Hermione felt her cheeks flush nervously; she never really confessed these sorts of things to her mother, much less Mrs. Weasley. She knew if she kept talking, she would upset Molly to the brink of tears.

After the War had ended, Ron and Hermione confessed their feelings for each other; the sparks had been there, right in front of the Room of Requirement, and nothing could hold them back. They kept their relationship under hushed tones; no one, not even Harry, knew of their rendezvous at midnight during New Year's Eve.

They had hit several bumps along the way. Hermione had become a Healer at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, giving her and Ron less frequent time to enjoy each others' company. Ron, on the other hand, took a position at Gringrotts, the Wizarding Bank, and traveled immensely with Bill.

Though Fleur had become used to an absent Bill at mealtimes, Hermione had not. She missed seeing Ron joining her at family-run restaurants, walking hand-in-hand down the cobblestone streets of Muggle London.

The second-to-last bump was when Ron asked airily, just several moments after their lovefest, if she had ever considered marriage.

The inquire had clearly shocked Hermione, for the only expression etched on her face was surprise. She hadn't expected this, but they had been together for nearly three years - three years since the War had ended, three years since their love for each other had been exposed. Surely she had given it _some _thought . . . right?

That night had resulted into a tear-filled argument, leading a red-eared Ron to collect his belongings and walk out of Hermione's flat.

She had expected their argument to blow over, to see Ron emerge from green flames in her fireplace the following evening to apologize, but she never got that. Before she knew it, Ginny was informing her that Ron was traveling to Prague with Bill to do work for Gringrotts.

Hermione had felt numb for days, working grudgingly at her job, and speaking to no one. She accepted that her relationship with Ron was over, and she blamed herself; she felt incredibly stupid for not being ready for marriage. The idea was absurd to her, but seemed like a wonderful idea to Ron and even his family-especially Mrs. Weasley.

Molly seemed destroyed to hear the news of the breakup, but she never gave up hope. Ginny had told Hermione countless times over their tea meetings in London how her mother talked hopefully that Hermione and Ron could rekindle their romance. ("I reckon she prays you two will get together again," Ginny had said miserably once.)

But they didn't rekindle their romance, much less keep in contact. While Hermione continued to speak to the other Weasley's, Ron refused to meet eyes with her. She sent him numerous letters but all of them were returned unopened, including an old framed photograph of them at Harry and Ginny's wedding.

The hurt remained settled in her heart for months, accepting the fact that her and item were no longer together. But, as her mother always said, life goes on and she, Hermione, had to approbate the truth—Ron wanted nothing to do with her.

She forced herself, nearly a year after they parted ways, to have dinner at the Burrow with the other Weasleys who, in fact, enjoyed her company nonetheless. Fortunately, every time she showed up there was no sign of Ron there and never once did his siblings or parents mention him in any discussions they held with Hermione.

She slumped lower into her chair, pulling both of her dry lips into her mouth as she reminisced their brief romance together. The smell of his cologne lingering on her skin . . . the way his ears reddened as she teased him playfully . . . how he grazed his lips across her cheek before meeting her lips –

". . . You look a bit peaky, Hermione dear," Mrs. Weasley said with a frown as she interrupted Hermione of her memories. "Why don't you spend the night here?" she asked, hopefulness drawn as her eyebrows raised excitedly.

Hermione felt her stomach turn over; what would Ron say, seeing her sleeping on a sleeping bag in the living room? Would he even acknowledge her? Or would he just ignore her, refusing to accept the fact that she had been invited to sleep over by his own mother? With a small frown herself, Hermione shook her head. "I don't want to intrude, Molly . . . I-I mean, you've got all these guests already—"

"Oh, nonsense!" Mrs. Weasley scoffed, waving a hand at her. "You're not _intruding_, m'dear. You're like family to us . . ."

Once more, her stomach gave an uncomfortable turn, causing her to cough loudly to cover up the growl it made. How could she say no to her now? She didn't want to be considered family, not after all that had happened between her and Ron. But then again, she couldn't help but wonder what would happen when Ron woke up the following morning to see Hermione at breakfast, telling James and Albus legendary stories about their years at Hogwarts and all the mayhem they had caused and been lured into. Smiling shyly to herself, she finally responded with a confident, "Well then . . . if you insist . . ."

But when she woke up the next day to the aroma of scrambled eggs and kippers, she didn't see Ron at the kitchen table with the other red-headed Weasleys or the Potters. Arthur Weasley was sitting at the head of the table, his horn-rimmed glasses set at the brim of his pointed nose as he read the obituary on Lucius Malfoy's death while muttering incoherent nonsense about the late Death Eater. He looked shabby; his freckled face had gotten a bit sulky and his fiery red hair had faded a bit of its color. George was wearing his work suit-purple dragon skin-while telling Harry, who seemed exceptionally happy while listening intently to his brother-in-law as he tried uselessly to tame his unkempt jet-black hair. His wife Ginny was arguing with her mother about her sons' school supply list. The two boys, James—who had inherited both his parents' genes; his mother's amber eyes and his father's onyx, unkempt hair—and Albus—no one could mistake him for Harry Potter's son; he had gained all of his father's physical features, right down to the electrifying green eyes—were gazing admiringly into an enchanted book with moving colored pictures as it explained in a cool, droning voice about all the technique work used as a Quidditch player.

Harry glanced up from George, raising a brow questioningly at Hermione. "Hermione! What are you doing here?" She could almost sense the suspicion drawn in his inquire.

Gulping, she grinned sheepishly as everyone but Mrs. Weasley and Ginny stared at her curiously. They were clearly unaware she had spent the night at the Burrow. "Molly—er—invited—"

"She stopped by to see Ginny and was a fatigued by her hard work that day, so I told her just to use a sleeping bag in the living room," Mrs. Weasley explained tartly. Her explanation had almost seemed rehearsed, like she had expected Hermione not to know how to respond.

Mr. Weasley flashed a grin, set his copy of the Daily Prophet down and rose to his feet slowly. "You know you are always welcome here, Hermione," he said with his lopsided grin. "However, I must head off to work . . . busy day . . ."

On cue, George also stood up with one last bite of their kippers. "There are some new employees who have interviews at work right now. . . . I best be off, then." Turning to his nephews, he lowered his voice and muttered, "When you manage to sneak free of your mother, stop by at the joke shop—I've got a set of Skiving Snackboxes for you two; just in case you want to miss some classes . . ."

While James smirked mischievously, Albus glanced wearily at his mother who seemed to not have heard. Harry snorted into his goblet, looking up at Hermione. "Will you be joining us at Diagon Alley, Hermione?"

There was a hopeful glint in Ginny's caramel marbles—one that Hermione knew that, if she were to say no to the offer of tagging along to Diagon Alley, would disappear faster than she could even reply with her decision. She had the day off, which gave her an opportunity to run for her errands. It wouldn't be too bad, watching as James and Albus poured themselves all over the course books at Flourish & Blotts. It would be quite amusing to see James snap angrily at Madam Malkin as she tried to adjust his new set of robes.

Letting out a small breath, she glanced at James and Albus who raised their eyebrows inquisitively at her. She merely nodded, managing to get out a small _yes_ to them.

After George and Mr. Weasley left for work, Harry went upstairs to get ready for their afternoon in Diagon Alley and Mrs. Weasley prepared oatmeal for baby Lily. Ginny kept glancing at Hermione pointedly, waiting for her mother to leave the kitchen to finally ask:

"So? How did it go?"

Hermione had almost forgotten about her date with the grimy Squib. Folding the copy of the Daily Prophet, she raised her brows. "Well, it was . . . interesting."

"Interesting as in, he tames dragons or—"

"It was horrible!" Hermione snapped hotly, her nostrils fuming. "I don't understand why you and my mother constantly nag the fact that I am single. Has it ever occurred to you that I like being alone? I'm perfectly fine on my own. And when I meet the perfect guy, I will let you two know. But I don't need you two interfering in my nonexistent love life."

Letting out a breath, she suddenly felt at ease to have gotten that off her chest. She looked away from Ginny's horror-struck eyes and rose to her feet. "I-I need to make a list of what I need from Diagon Alley . . ."

**oOo**

Diagon Alley was suffocated with hundreds of wizards and witches, goblins and elves who bustled in and out of the shops to purchase their needs. Hogwarts students stared in awe at the latest Firebolt upgrade while their parents bought their course books and some even surprised their child with a new owl.

Ginny took Albus off to get his first year essentials with Molly while Harry and Hermione joined James to get his own necessities for his third year.

It was difficult to take two steps forward without bumping into another civilian. Hermione took small steps while beckoning Harry and James to meet her outside of the Apothecary, where she needed to purchase several potions. She couldn't help but grin at the new first years who, like Albus, would hop onto the Hogwarts Express and await—some nervously, some excitedly—to be Sorted into one of the four Houses of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The new students pulled their parents into Flourish & Blotts, a grandmother beckoning her young grandchild to finish her ice cream outside of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor.

Inside the Apothecary, Hermione sought the help of the young witch with golden hair in two braids, giggling rather girlishly with another familiar face, who was standing on the other side of the counter with the Wizarding magazine the _Daily Prophet _wide open for the other tittering girl to rave over. . . .

"Hannah? Lavender?"

The girl behind the counter, Hannah Abbott, widened her gossip-induced orbs and opened her mouth in surprise as she struggled to vocally phrase Hermione's name. The other witch with her, Lavender Brown, spun around and gave a shrilly squeal of delight. "Hermione Granger, it's been _too_ long!"

Hannah, who seemed to have finally recomposed herself, blinked at Hermione and stood almost proudly to be now running the Apothecary in Diagon Alley. "How have you been, Hermione?"

"Good, good . . . I just need some ingredients for work. . . ." Distractedly, Hermione looked at the opened page of the _Daily Prophet _issue with a raised eyebrow. The man on the page was as familiar as Hannah and Lavender to Hermione. Almost _too _familiar, with his pointed chin and white-blond hair . . . the two ice-blue eyes that pierced her soul with any glance . . . this man, the lost friend, the lost soul, the lost teenager caught between the Light and the Dark during the Battle of Hogwarts, who had eschewed his own life to help the side of Light. Out of reluctance, Hermione managed to pull her eyes away from the moving photograph of a beaming Draco Malfoy, a hand wrapped around a brunette bombshell who just so happened to be his wife, and read the headline:

MALFOY GIVES GENEROUS DONATION TO ST. MUNGO'S

"Oh, he's gorgeous isn't he?" Lavender gushed admiringly, biting her lip hopelessly at the magical picture of Malfoy and his wife. "Helping out those poor, _poor_ people . . ."

Feeling too weak to read the article, in fear of vomiting, Hermione asked rather bitterly, "Which department has he donated to?"

"Spell Damage," Hannah responded meekly, gazing as well at Draco's imperfect face. "You know, the department—"

"I know, I know," Hermione interrupted hastily, waving it off. She too was now looking at Malfoy's photograph, rather reluctantly. He looked the same; the only difference was in his smile—tight, hesitant, almost tired and strained . . . nothing like before. . . .

"He donated one hundred thousand Galleons to help benefit the remedy to cure those who have been severely damaged by the Cruciatus Curse," Hannah continued dotingly. "Several Healers are attempting to brew up a potion to cure these helpless people, but they needed support so, obviously, St. Mungo's turned to Malfoy Corporation. With Lucius gone, they asked Draco to support them and in return, he donated all this to those patients who deserved it."

Hannah and Lavender gave another trilled squeal of mere pleasure, gasping dreamily at Draco Malfoy's photograph once more. They continued to point out each little feature on his flawless, yet strained, face while throwing several nasty, muttered comments about his wife—the wife, the lover he never seemed to have mentioned . . . never once, not even in his letters. . . . .

"So Hermione, what can I do for you today?" Hannah asked brightly.

Tearing her eyes away from the copy of the _Daily Prophet_, she showed the new owner of the Apothecary the list of ingredients she needed and asked promptly, "Will they be ready by, say . . . four this afternoon?"

When Hannah agreed, Hermione waved to both Lavender Brown and Hannah Abbott and quickly made her way out into the human trafficked cobblestones of Diagon Alley. She saw the flaming red hair that belonged to both Molly and Ginny Weasley as they held each hand of Lily Potter, who was pouting sadly at her mother, while Albus gazed in admiration at the new course book he had purchased at Flourish & Blotts. But Ginny merely scolded her and Hermione couldn't help but laugh, going the other direction in hopes of finding Harry and James once more.

She saw the cocky grin of James Potter and the lopsided grin of Harry just outside the ice cream parlor. Making her way over to them, Harry opened his mouth to speak but James had his head peaking through the side of his father's body, pointing his index finger at a child who looked no older or younger than Albus, screaming delightfully, _"Scorpius!"_

The smile on Hermione's face dropped almost instantly as she whirled around, her heart thudding so loudly she could hear it throbbing in her ears. Clenching her jaw, she saw a lanky, broad-shouldered Scorpius Malfoy—the spitting image of his father, like Albus to Harry—glancing up from the Quidditch book he was reading. Smirking at the sight of James, he thrusted the book into his father's hand and made his way over to Harry and James.

It took amount for Hermione to compose herself when she met Draco Malfoy's icy eyes. Scorpius had inherited every feature Draco could possibly had possessed that it was almost like he was Draco himself. Feeling her throat closing in, she clutched tightly to the next list for books she wanted to view and purchase at Flourish & Blotts. But all that seemed faraway, in a distant mind; she wasn't even thinking of Ron, or how angry she was at Ginny for setting her up on all those blind dates, or how she would be going to work rather grudgingly in the morning . . . he was, surprisingly, standing before Hermione in Diagon Alley, staring rather blankly at Hermione. . . . Was he too thinking of all the lost memories, the secret meetings—

"Hermione," Draco Malfoy spoke, rather softly than she had expected. With a pale brow arched up his forehead, he added even softer this time, "It's been too long."

She felt like arguing with him, like punching him or cursing him with the wand that was tucked into her jeans, in a street filled with curious witches and wizards and magical creatures. She wanted to scream, to cry, to punish him for all the wrongdoings he had done to everyone, to the innocent people and, more importantly, to _her_.

She fought the urge of all she was thinking and merely nodded her head curtly. "And this must be . . . Scorpius. It's lovely to finally meet you." She flashed him a small, yet pleasant smile, and he equally matched one. It flashed brightly, with his pearly white and small teeth, his eyes shining like diamonds in the high sun.

Draco's eyes finally turned to Harry's, rather awkwardly. "Potter."

They shook hands and grinned widely at one another, all the tension and hatred from nineteen years before vanishing just like that. Hermione seemed to have missed a major point in Harry's forgiveness with several witches and wizards on the Dark Side. And once more, she felt like screaming at her best friend for not mentioning that he was pals with Draco Malfoy and that their two sons were nearly best friends.

As James and Scorpius went off to Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—where, Hermione assumed, James would be secretly handed a Skiving Snackbox from his uncle—Harry and Malfoy took outside seats of the ice cream parlor. Seeing Harry glance up at her, Hermione joined them as well, scooting her seat nonchalantly away from Draco.

"So what's been going on inside Hermione Granger's world?"

The words left Draco's lips in a bare whisper, long and soft, with his piercing, crystallized orbs staring her down once more. His lips were opened slightly, still frozen in place after vocalizing the last word of his question directed to her. He knitted his hands across the table, leaning over to her and flashed a quirky grin—a foolish, immature grin that Hermione knew to find tantalizing, the one she found perfect and mesmerizing, pure and innocent . . .

Hermione tried not to look up, tried to fight the urge to melt into a puddle at his feet, but met his eyes almost out of frustration. She caught Harry rising to his feet from the corner of her eye, muttering something about having to meet up with Ginny. Though she wanted to beg him to stay, or to take Draco with him, she watched him go with her peripheral vision, and finally managed to speak out to Draco, "I've been . . . places."

Draco seemed to be taking this under consideration because Hermione watched him nod thoughtfully, and finally he flickered his eyes over to connect with hers once more. "And what do you do for a living again?"

"I'm a Healer at St. Mungo's," she confirmed crisply, feeling her spine tingle as his eyes travelled from her head to her toe. The way he observed every inch of her, scanning her to note any differences . . . for _she_, Hermione, could spot all the changes Malfoy had gone through since the end of the war. She wondered if he could do the same . . .

"A Healer? With a history like yours I thought you would have settled for a profession full of risks . . . like perhaps the position of an Auror?"

"Harry is the Auror," Hermione shot back, and she suddenly regretted it. Draco's eyes softened at the sourness unveiled in her tone, the bitterness clear in her amber brown eyes. "What I mean to say is," she added softly this time, trying to make up for her sudden rudeness, "Harry is there to capture the Dark people with malevolent ways. He wants to stop them from hurting innocent lives, both with magic blood and Muggles. And I . . . I try my best to save the lives of those who were less fortunate, those who fell ill naturally and those who were cursed upon by a Dark wizard."

His expression remained unchanged and Hermione felt her cheeks redden. Had she babbled? Had she droned on and on, boring him to near death? Or had she made a fool out of herself by doing one of those two options? Slouching her shoulders a bit, she let out a breath and chewed on her lower lip.

"Healer Hermione . . . it seems to have a nice ring to it, actually."

At this point, she was at a loss for words. All she could do was merely stare hopelessly in Draco's direction, her lips parted in a small O. Awkward silence settled between them; all that could be heard were the other civilians sprinting in and out of shops and boutiques, several house-elves with their hunched backs and bat-like ears doing the shopping for the wealthier families.

Draco leaned back in his seat, leaving his colorless hands parted. "Listen, Hermione—"

"I heard about your donation to St. Mungo's, to the Spell Damage department," she said quickly, her throat hot and clenching together.

He gave a small nod with his head, his eyes bouncing around the streets of Diagon Alley. "It was—"

"A very kind thing to do," she finished, the corners of her eyes tightening. Why was her throat closing? Why was she choking back tears? _Why _was she even thinking about crying?

He shrugged modestly, looking down at the table in between them. She couldn't help but stare involuntarily at him; he simply intrigued every bit of her, ever since he took her under consideration and opened himself up to her. Even now, years since the war and years since before they grew a struggled hatred for each other, he looked so . . . vulnerable, hopeless, strained. His eyes looked back up nervously, his voice now cracking as he spoke: "It was the least I could do."

From across the street to where Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes was located, Hermione heard loud guffaws coming from Scorpius and James. She glanced up at Draco's son, recognizing the identical laugh Draco had handed over to his son. Reckless, carefree laughs.

"He looks just like you," Hermione whispered, looking over Draco's shoulder to where the two boys were watching George Weasley test out Wildfire Whiz-Bangs for the children who were gathering around him.

Draco grinned, glancing up to the clear sky. "So I've been told."

Once more, silence fell between them and left Hermione wondering whether he was asking himself the same unanswered questions she seemed to be thinking of. In all the years since the war had ended, not once had Draco made an effort to contact her. He cut her off from everything, neglecting her to the extreme. But she, Hermione, desired to ask him more than just that. He seemed to be thinking the same as she, for he meekly shook his head and twiddled his hawthorn wand in his cadaverous hands.

"I heard . . . about your . . . I'm sorry," she spluttered quietly, mentally kicking herself in the head. Of all things to bring up, she chose _now _to mention his father?

His cerulean eyes darkened instantly, the lightest shade of pink blushing across his cheeks. "I am too," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Draco, I didn't mean—"

To her amazement, he rose to his feet and looked around. "I saw . . . I saw Ginny and Molly with Albus and Lily before," he suddenly said, his voice rather soft. He looked down at Hermione, a curious eyebrow arched upward. "But I didn't spot Ron anywhere. Actually, I haven't seen him since . . . well . . ."

A pang hit her heart immediately as she too looked around Diagon Alley. Harry, Ginny, Molly, Lily, and Albus were now joining George, Scorpius, and James inside the joke shop. It almost seemed incomplete, coming to this location without Ron. . . .

"Ron and I . . . we're not . . ."

"I figured." His tone was bitter, almost spat out at her; it sent another twinge of sadness to her heart.

"There was a picture of you and your wife when I was reading the article about your donation," Hermione choked out, rising to her feet now. "But I never caught onto her name . . ."

"You know, I really should get going. Scorpius has to finish purchasing his essentials and I . . . well . . . I have no time to play your twenty-one questions right now," he snapped harshly, pocketing his wand and turning his shoulders to the direction of the joke shop.

He began walking but after several steps, he slouched his shoulders and peeked over his shoulder at her. Clenching his jaw, he murmured, "Goodbye, Granger."

And he walked off to collect his son from the Potters and Mrs. Weasley. He walked off the same way he had done so long ago that it was so familiar to Hermione that she could almost count how many steps Draco Malfoy walked to find Scorpius. Her eyes burned unwillingly as she gulped back all the questions she had hoped to ask him.

Closing her eyes, she turned the other direction, back to the Apothecary to collect the ingredients she prayed Hannah had ready for her, and remembered the first time she had had a friendly conversation with Draco Malfoy only to realize, those days were long gone . . . and they would never return.

* * *

"Ron, you spoiled _everything_!"

Draco stopped abruptly, raising a pale eyebrow suspiciously as other guests of the Yule Ball poured out of the Great Hall with their dates. Some sneaked off into hidden cupboards, giggling loudly, while others took strolls down the cobblestones as the puffy snowflakes fluttered onto the darkened earth as they casted a purple glow.

He heard the loud sob from the staircase, but no one else seemed fazed by it. He set down his goblet of spiced pumpkin juice-which had been spiked with firewhiskey by a seventh year Slytherin-onto the refreshment table and perked his ears to the direction of the muffled sobs, which had now descended to sniffles.

His date-and best friend for that matter-for the evening, Pansy Parkinson, crinkled her frank eyebrows at him as she watched his every move. "Draco, where are you-"

"You head back to the common room," he instructed her lowly, keeping his ear perked as he listened intently to the muffled sniffles. "I'll be back later. . . ."

He ignored Pansy's distant mutters, walking down the long corridor and finally meeting the staircase only being occupied by a Hogwarts student in her ball gown, holding her knees close to her chest as she gasped for air while tears continuously trickled down her face. Slowly, Draco crept closer but quietly, in hopes the girl wouldn't realize he was there. But, as he took a step up the stairs . . .

"I know you're there, Malfoy," she coughed out miserably, lifting her face to reveal her identity.

It was Hermione Granger. But it didn't _look _like the know-it-all Muggle-born he had despised on first instinct when he met her on the Hogwarts Express three years before. Her usual bushy brown hair was tamed, now sleeked in a ponytail that was curled by the ends and held by a periwinkle ribbon that corresponded well with the color of her Yule Ball dress. Her silver heels were to her right and Draco could see her swollen feet now red and slightly bruised. Her caramel eyes were red, puffy from her waterfall of tears while her cheeks were dried from all the wiping she had done to remove the continuation of her hopeless crying.

He rubbed his neck uncomfortably, coughing feebly. "You . . . you alright, Granger?"

"And why do _you_ care?" she shot out wearily, frowning with her eyebrows. "Why should I even _tell _you why I'm upset? So I could give you the satisfaction that my evening was ruined so you could just top it off with your rude comments about my blood status?"

Taken aback, he pursed his pasty lips together and tucked his hands into his dress robes. "I heard you crying from the Hall and I was just curious to see who it was. That was all. But seeing as you don't want any comfort then I'll just be on my way. . . . Happy Christmas, _Granger_." Turning around, he sauntered down the steps and was about to turn a corner to the direction of the Slytherin common room when—

"Ron's an insensitive git sometimes."

**oOo**

The two talked comfortably on the staircase, sitting side-by-side while sharing Christmas tales just to take away the hurt Hermione was still enduring from the Yule Ball. From what Draco had collected, Hermione had arrived to the Ball with Viktor Krum—much to his surprise, honestly—and Ron Weasley just couldn't hide his jealousy any further.

To take his surprise even further, Hermione was easy to talk to; she held herself properly, retelling her childhood stories as if they were actually watching them in front of them. Several times, as she laughed at a joke he told, she leaned into his shoulder and Draco hopelessly inhaled her vanilla and lavender fragrance, his insides churning and his heart swelling—

"It's getting really late," Hermione whispered, almost reluctantly, while grabbing her heels. "I should get going . . ."

"Wait," he blurted out, jumping to his feet to grab her wrist gently. He turned her to face him, his eyes round with silent pleads. "Can . . ."—he gulped, trying to find the right words—"can we see each other again, Gr – Hermione?"

She blushed furiously, glancing awkwardly at the wrist he was holding onto. He released it and Hermione huffed a small breath with her lips curving into the smallest smile, but it still made his stomach flip unconsciously. "The Owlery should be free at midnight tomorrow . . ."

He nodded excitedly, walking backwards down the stairs. "That sounds . . . excellent. Goodnight, Hermione."

She waved meekly, running up the stairs back to Gryffindor Tower. And Draco, much to his surprise, found himself whistling and humming Christmas carols, bouncing down the corridors back to his dormitory.

And that was where it all started . . . the secret friendship between two sworn enemies. And he, Draco Malfoy, found himself begging for tomorrow midnight to come quicker—just to see Hermione Granger once more.


End file.
